Holy Palmer's Kiss
by AtomicArtifice
Summary: The gang is cast in an impromptu production of the classic Romeo and Juliet, one of Shakespeare's greatest works. (Uncompleted)


"If I profane with my unworthiest hand, um..."

He knelt beneath her, blue eyes ablaze. His hair tumbled down from the crown of his head, framing his smooth, doll-like face. His hands wound delicately around one another, a nervous tick, while his eyes flickered back and forth across the ceiling, as if a line were written there. He began to blush, out of embarrassment. "Um..." He stared up at her, pleadingly. Memorization was not his strong suit.

Annie rolled her eyes at the boy. The sonnet was fourteen lines, and only half of them his. Shouldn't it be easy for him, as it was for her? Feigned romanticism was just about the easiest thing in the world. "This holy shrine." She fed him the line, with an exasperated sigh.

He nodded, his eyes retreating back to her face, her beautiful face.

"This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims..." Some stifled giggles rose from the other actors, sprawled out on the floor, watching the scene with amused eyes. Armin felt his cheeks burning. He choked his way through the rest of the line. "To smooth that rough touch with a... with a..." Eren was shaking with silent laughter from the floor. It was distracting, and Armin was prone to embarrassment. "...with a tender kiss."

Jean snorted and held his head in his hands, caught captive by the giggles. Eren howled with laughter, and so did most of the other respective cast members. Mikasa even smiled a little bit. Annie, from a standing position, rolled her eyes at the shy Romeo, crushing what little was left of his acting vigor. Armin stuttered in apology, though no wrongdoing had been committed. He looked like he might cry. Annie rolled her eyes and sighed her next line.

"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this-"

The director tapped his pen on the side of the table, cutting her off. "Annie, Annie, Annie," he shook his head in despair, "You have to at least pretend to be in love with the poor boy. Act, dipstick."

The director was a tall man, tall and lanky, with dark hair that gathered in the middle of his forehead and stuck messily out in the back. He was not fond of conventional work attire, and instead adorned himself with a dark grey hoodie and faded blue jeans that were a few inches too long and had been washed a few too many times. He chewed shamelessly on his lower lip, as he had skipped lunch that day and was starving and cranky. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he swirled from side to side in his spinny office chair. Bertholdt had been with the program only a year or so, and his unconventional methods had never before come face to face with the terror of Shakespeare. He nodded at Annie to continue.

"-For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers kiss." Annie pressed her hand hesitantly against Armin's, and a rush of warm energy flowed up her arms and into her chest. They were both small in stature, with thin, delicate hands and corn-yellow hair, and looked as if they were a matching set. Perhaps their complementary physicality had come into consideration during casting; they certainly painted a pretty picture with their hands touching and faces but inches away.

"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?" Armin's confidence soared as their eyes met. Nothing else mattered. Bertholdt didn't matter. The giggling cast members didn't matter. Only this mattered; the moment. Her face. Her lips. Her eyes. He reveled in it.

"Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake." Annie felt her skin prickling, growing warmer. She could not break this spell.

Armin leaned forward a few inches, almost at a whisper, his words stuck on the tantalizing grey of her eyes. "Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take."

Bertholdt raised his eyebrows expectantly. The cast members glanced at each other, and at the pair of lovers caught in each others' gaze. A smile crept onto Annie's face, although she did not realize it. Silence swallowed them whole.

"Kiss her!" Bertholdt hissed, smacking his pen impatiently on the desk. Armin jumped, and was tugged out of his trance. "W-what?"

"You're supposed to kiss her, nimrod. Have you read your stage directions?"

Armin stuttered and shrugged, his hands shaking and his cheeks flushing pink. "I... I, uh..."

"Oh my lord, Armin. Why did I cast you? Why?" Bertholdt groaned and held his face in his hands. "Take five, guys."

A roar of 'thank you five' chimed out from the desperately hungry cast, who scrambled towards the hallway vending machines for their crack at a snack in between scenes. Armin trudged out the door last, trying to avoid Bertholdt's disappointed glare. He fingered the single paper dollar that was stuffed in his pocket; he didn't really feel like eating anything. Around the corner, his friends were crowded around a snack machine, talking and laughing. He didn't feel like joining in, but from the moment that Eren caught his eye, he knew he wouldn't be able to avoid it.

"Hey, Armin!" Eren shot him a suave head-nod from his place in front of the snack machine, flanked nonchalantly by Mikasa and Jean. "Get over here!"

Armin trudged halfheartedly towards his friends, passing Annie, slouched against the wall, smoking. He was fairly sure that she wasn't allowed to be doing that inside the school building. "Hi." Annie only sniffed apathetically at him, so he kept moving.

Jean slouched dejectedly against the far side of the snack machine, chewing on an oatmeal bar. Armin's two best friends, Eren and Mikasa, were bickering over a bottle of pop that Mikasa had just purchased; it was likely that Eren wanted some of it, and Mikasa desired a collateral. Armin gazed back towards Annie. She always sat alone during breaks in rehearsal periods, and the only time Armin had ever talked to her was during scenes, reading for their characters.


End file.
